


sometimes you forget

by megancrtr



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: A Moment in Time, M/M, like a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:14:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megancrtr/pseuds/megancrtr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you forget your own birthday and your sister has to drive a fist into your arm. Lots of times, counting up from zero to the age you don't feel, don't look, don't sound. </p><p>tag to 4.05: "There's the Rub"</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes you forget

Sometimes you forget your own birthday and your sister has to drive a fist into your arm. Lots of times, counting up from zero to the age you don't feel, don't look, don't sound.

Sometimes you forget your words and your wife mocks you in her broken English. She has a better grasp on insults than she did when you took her hand in yours, your knuckles spelling fuck. You're not the bad guy now, but the fucker, the pussy, the dickhead, and a few times a cunt or a bastard. But she never calls you fag. Faggot. There's a line there that the two of you have never crossed, toed, spat at.

You call other people that though. Like your brothers and you're never sure why that comes out of your mouth. But it feels right. To call them faggots and give them a swift kick when they've been stupid and are crawling on the ground.

You try not to remember the one time you were on your knees, ass in the air. Grunting, grinning because there was no one to see your face. You call them faggots.

You're outside. Because inside there are too many Russians. Because inside your sister is screaming. Inside you remember your father. It's hard sometimes to go out the door; you haven't gotten rid of the couch. Because you're not trying to prove anything. It's easiest to just look everywhere but to your left. To light a smoke as you walk out the door, to take a swig as you walk, to mutter about idiots as you walk. Never think about faggots there. Never anything about Russian whores.

You're okay with being a dick to others, but it's a little harder to be a dick to yourself. It hurts a little more. An attack from the inside. Some sort of fucking Trojan or some shit. School is a blur while the couch is sharp.

You're leaning against one of the porch posts; you're drinking with one hand and smoking with the other. It's cloudy. It's cold, but being out in the cold is better than being in with the warmth and the smells. Smells, you'd heard from a rambling, pleading crackhead, trigger memories. Like a gun. Boom. Bam. Memory. Of blood and sex and pistols. It's not the memory you wished it was. Your father is the main character instead of--

You take a swig from a brown paper bag. You don’t want to reread that book, which, no matter how hard you tried, never burned. The rough texture from the bag doesn't register against your calloused skin. You turn your head at the footsteps stopping in front of your house.

It's the other Gallagher, the one that has the easier way out of the Hellhole that you can't leave. Refuse to leave? Don't want to leave? Shouldn't leave? Wish to leave?

 _Fuck you want?_ you ask when he doesn't say anything. Stares at you with those eyes. He judges. The other doesn’t. Didn’t. Not until --

He asks you about his brother. You look away right after you say, _No_. Not a word from him. You wouldn't know anything either. You hadn't asked for anything. Not really. Once. Twice. When it was easy to ask and for no one to care. Easy to ask and for no one to notice.

He tells you, _It's important._

But like fuck. You know what importance is. You know what is and what isn't fucking important in life. What's important involves keeping people safe. That's not what this Gallagher is doing. Not by asking questions when his dad could be anywhere. Lurking. Waiting. Gun loaded like it wasn't last time.

It wouldn't be pretend again like it was last time.

He told you, _It's important._ You disagree. Because saving lives is important. And that's not what the other Gallagher is talking about. He just wants to know. Know all the damn business that isn't his. 

_So you think I give a shit 'cause I worked with the guy?_

You're not good at looking people in the eyes when it's about him. So you pull the smoke up to your lips, wishing the smell was a little more there. Maybe a memory would kick in. You'd get transported somewhere, anywhere else. Summer. When Death didn't dance before your eyes, a baby bouncing on its hip. Death has a pretty ugly face. Reminds you a lot of your father. He's fucking fat with sausage fingers and a gun sticking out the back of his saggy jeans.

But then suddenly you're nervous that the other Gallagher _is_ trying to save a life. And if he can't save this life then you couldn't keep this life safe. And then--

The other Gallagher wants to know if you're gonna make him spell it out.

The smoke goes out your nose, between your lips. You shift off the porch post. Because sometimes you forget your own birthday and your sister has to drive a fist into your arm. But you never forget the secrets you have to keep. Because if word was going to get out Death would make you hold the screaming baby in your arms as he reaped. Murdered. If Death split that brain in half, maybe you wouldn't notice the blood. But probably. Because carrots aren't the same as apples. But it's close. If you squint. And you're squinting in the sun that's managed to get through the clouds.

You drop your arms to your sides and pull your shoulders back just a little. Death is high stepping on your heart. Or maybe on your shoulder, whispering in your ear. About how you're going to know exactly how it goes down. If, when, it goes down. You don't doubt it. You don’t doubt that you'd probably have to watch. That you wouldn't get the chance to kill yourself afterwards. You don't doubt the mutilation that happens within your life, within your family.

You shift your weight forward. _What the fuck you getting at._ And if you thought for a second you could protect what needs to be protected just a little better, by taking out this blabber mouth, the gun would be out of your waistband and fired. But Gallagher… Ian.

 _Nothing,_ the other Gallagher says. _I'm just... worried about him._

And you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and twist to look away. Because sometimes you forget your words and your wife mocks you in her broken English. But sometimes you forget to keep words inside and they're out before you can stop them.

 _He in trouble?_ You can't help it. _What kind of trouble?_

Because maybe you can help that. Because you need to be able to hel-- do something.

He tells you he'll let you know when he finds out.

You don’t like that answer as the train roars by.

You remember walking under it with Gallagher. Crashing arms together every so often. Slick skin on skin. Summer steaming out sweat. Sweat plates your skin now, just underneath the grey sweater where no one can see. Where your heart fucked up its rhythm. You look down. Look up. Look down. Look back. After the other Gallagher, like he might change into the right Gallagher.

You tell yourself you're stupid. Stupid, stupid and disillusioned. You swallow what's not in your throat and head inside. Because it's cold outside and smells like nothing. At least inside you can pretend; at least inside you can pretend as long as you don't look at the couch and your wife doesn't call you fag and your sister doesn't hold back a punch.


End file.
